Room 419: The Last Resort Motel, #9

By Ann Mayburn

A Gift from Drunk Me....

When Ivy goes to Las Vegas with her parents she never expects to wake up married to Deacon, one of her dad's best friends and her teenage crush. Especially considering the last time she saw him she'd kissed him and he totally blew her off. She thought he wasn't interested, but the ring on her finger says otherwise…now if she could only remember actually getting married.

  Deacon has spent the last few years biding his time, giving Ivy a chance to grow up before he claimed her as his. One night was all it took to get his ring on her finger, and he'll be damned if he lets anyone keep them apart now. Something easier said than done when Ivy's parents find out he made their darling daughter his wife.

Author's note- This novella is part of the Last Resort Motel series, but is a stand alone. Each story in the series is by a different author, of various genres. A bonus novella has been included for your enjoyment. :)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Mayburn
• Release date: Sep 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386079309

Ann Mayburn

Ann is Queen of the Castle to her wonderful husband and three sons in the mountains of West Virginia. In her past lives she's been an Import Broker, a Communications Specialist, a US Navy Civilian Contractor, a Bartender/Waitress, and an actor at the Michigan Renaissance Festival. She also spent a summer touring with the Grateful Dead-though she will deny to her children that it ever happened.From a young age she's been fascinated by myths and fairytales, and the romance that often was the center of the story. As Ann grew older and her hormones kicked in, she discovered trashy romance novels. Great at first, but she soon grew tired of the endless stories with a big wonderful emotional buildup to really short and crappy sex. Never a big fan of purple prose, throbbing spears of fleshy pleasure and wet honey pots make her giggle, she sought out books that gave the sex scenes in the story just as much detail and plot as everything else-without using cringe worthy euphemisms. This led her to the wonderful world of Erotic Romance, and she's never looked back.Now Ann spends her days trying to tune out cartoons playing in the background to get into her 'sexy space' and has learned to type one handed while soothing a cranky baby.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Ivy

The soft shimmer of chimes drew me from my sleep, my mouth as dry as the desert, and my eyelids feeling like they were glued together. My befuddled mind tried to figure out what that noise was as I squinted and rubbed at my face, dislodging one of my false eyelashes. Crap, I hadn’t taken my makeup off after I’d gone to bed. By the nausea churning in my gut, and the headache brewing behind my closed lids, I knew I was hungover. This wasn’t unusual. I had just finished up my sophomore year at college, and I’d spent a great deal of that time getting shitfaced with my friends.

I’m not saying I’m a binge drinker or anything, but I liked a good party as much as the next girl.

Besides, I needed to let loose. I was supposed to be settled on a major by now, working towards my future career, but I still had no clue what I wanted to do. Nothing really caught my attention, and I dreaded ending up in a job I hated. I’d worked at my fair share of shitty jobs, and I had no desire to replicate that experience for the rest of my life. My parents were getting impatient for me to choose something, but I just didn’t know what I wanted to do. Well, I knew what I wanted to do, but I don’t think anyone was going to pay me to sit on the beach and read books.

The chime came again, slicing through the fog of my drifting thoughts like a razor-edged knife.

My searching fingertips tried to grab my phone, but I found only cool pillows and linens where my bedside table usually was.

A sense of disorientation swept over me when I finally opened my eyes, and it took me longer than I’d care to admit for my brain to engage.

Staring dumbly across the unfamiliar room, I tried to figure out where I was.

Wherever I was, it had the distinct feeling of a hotel room, and it was way nicer than my crap apartment back home. Instead of a faded and stained carpet, the floors were gleaming pale wood that brightened the rectangular space. The king-sized bed I was in looked as big as the living room I shared near the UCLA campus with my roommate, and the sheets were so soft. Absently I rubbed my cheek back and forth on the smooth fabric of the pillowcase, my gaze drifting around the room.

The drapes were closed on the windows, but enough light seeped in around the edges to reveal the small brown suede couch and neat driftwood table. A pile of what looked like shopping bags sat in the shadows near the couch and I squinted, trying to read the names in the semi-dark.

With both hands I rubbed my eyes, then squinted again at what looked like a pile of bags from La Emerald, a super high-end lingerie store.

A low throb started behind my eyeballs as my stomach clenched, and I had to spend a few moments doing nothing but fighting back the urge to get sick.

Whatever had happened last night, I knew this feeling well. My alcohol tolerance was crap, and when I drank too much, my body always made me pay for it. I’m not a lush or anything, I’m just one of those girls that got wasted off of two drinks. Hey, at least I was a cheap date.

The sweat on my forehead began to cool as my nausea faded, leaving me weak with relief.

My phone began to ring again and I managed to gather myself enough to pick it up.

The words on the screen made me freeze in horror.

There was a message.

From me.

Or more specifically, drunk me.

Nothing good ever happened when drunk me left messages for sober me.

Steeling myself, I pressed a button and listened.

Okay, sober Ivy, don’t freak out, my recorded voice slurred slightly.

I instantly freaked out.

Last time drunk me sent sober me a message like this I found out I’d ordered pizza for my entire dorm room floor. Do you have any idea how many hours I had to work at my shitty job that barely paid above minimum wage to cover all that food? A lot.

Then there was the time I woke up terribly hungover in Cancun on spring break. When I sobered up enough to function, I discovered some video of me doing a hula hoop contest at a bar the night before had gone viral. Drunk me had decided stripping down to my, thankfully matching, pink cotton bra and booty shorts was a sure way to win the contest. My bra actually covered more skin than my bikini, though my shorts were short enough that I had more than a hint of my round lower ass cheeks hanging out.

Drunk me was right about ‘skin to win’ and I had won the contest. While sober me was happy to have the six hundred dollars drunk me won, my parents were less than pleased to find out their darling daughter could hula hoop while making obscene tongue gestures. Not my finest moment thanks to my friend tequila.

And I didn’t even want to think about the time drunk me decided to streak across campus with a huge group of equally drunk frat brothers and sorority sisters.

A chime from my phone split the air and I blew out a deep, sour breath.

A shiver raced down my spine as I prayed I hadn’t done anything too crazy.

I skipped to the next voice mail, Okay, sober Ivy, I need you to be calm and look at your ring finger on your left hand. And remember, don't freak out. This is all good.

With a growing sense of horror I looked at my hand and right away was blinded by the massive, sparkling diamond surrounded by tiny opals on my ring finger.

And the pave cut diamond and opal wedding band beneath it.

The wedding set was unique, gorgeous, and the diamond was freaking huge.

The wedding set...

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no, I chanted. No, no, no. I am not married. No way. No.

My breath came out in hot pants as my stomach filled with nausea.

I felt like I was going to be sick as I stared at the ring, wondering if it was real.

Surely it was a fake.

I mean, that was like a three-carat diamond.

And the opals sparkled with rainbow fires.

It was exactly the kind of ring I would have picked out if I like a million dollars to spend.

My mouth watered and I willed myself not to be sick.

Closing my eyes, I took some deep breaths.

There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.

I mean, if I was married there should be a guy with me in bed, right? As far as I could tell I was alone, and a quick glance showed an empty and dark bathroom. The bed certainly didn’t show any signs of a wild sex romp. I smelled the pillow next to mine and there was no hint of a male scent, only fabric softener.

I hit the next message on the phone, and drunk me sounded very excited as she said, Yep, we got married! And you’ll never guess who you got married to.

Maybe it was a joke.

Drunk me had a seriously twisted sense of humor.

I’m not gonna tell you, it’ll be a surprise, but check your Facebook page. My drunken giggle filled the air as I turned the volume up. "I wanted everyone to know I’m married and who my new husband is."

Oh no.

Spots began to dance along the edges of my vision and I forced myself to take another deep breath as I sat up and quickly went to my Facebook page.

At first I squinted my eyes, sure I was reading the numbers on my phone wrong.

There was no way I had over five thousand new friendship requests.

And over seven hundred message notifications.

But I did.

And they were all comments and likes for my change in status post from single to married.

My world lurched as I broke out into a stinging sweat that smelled faintly of alcohol.

Wheezing, I closed my eyes and promised God I’d be a good girl for the rest of my life if he would just make this all go away.

When nothing happened, I squinted open one eye and peeked at my Facebook page.

Nope, still there.

I scrolled down to the post and nearly choked when I saw my wedding picture.

Wearing a glittering princess crown and flowing veil, my dark black hair was styled into an elaborate mass of curls and I was smiling like I’d just won the lottery. Considering the man that was gazing down at me adoringly in the picture, it was no wonder I was grinning. My heart gave a huge thump and I clutched my hand to my chest, wondering faintly if I was having a heart attack.

I knew that face, had studied every inch of his profile with pure, unadulterated puppy love.

We were a study in contrasts. True, we both had dark hair, and we both tanned easily, but that’s where the resemblances ended. While I was short and curvy, he was built like a professional football player with impossibly broad shoulders. Deacon had a perpetual tan, the kind that could only be gained from a lot of time spent outdoors. His dark brown hair was liberally streaked with deep auburn, and he wore a tux like no one’s business. The tux had to be custom made, because it fit his barrel chest, then tapered to his narrow waist perfectly. He had the thick thighs of a football player, and his rounded ass was out of this world.

Deacon Kryza had always been a good-looking man, but he’d gotten immensely better with age. In the three years since I’d last seen him, Deacon had filled out and his face had matured. He had to be close to thirty now, and he wore it well.

Taking a deep breath, I stared at the ring on my finger, then back to the picture on the screen in pure disbelief.

My first crush, the next-door neighbor who I’d been more than a little obsessed with growing up, my dad’s buddy, had somehow become my husband.

With my heart in my throat, I struggled to keep from hyperventilating.

How had this happened?

Staring at the picture, I could remember the feel his arms around me, the way our bodies fit so perfectly together. Deacon wasn’t super tall, and in my heels the top of my head reached his nose. My gaze returned to his face in the picture,, and my heart gave a flutter, as I stared at his green as summer grass eyes.

I was twelve years old when Deacon moved in next to my parents, and I’d fallen hopelessly head over heels in puppy love at first sight. Who could blame me? Not only was he cute, he was nice and smart. At twenty he’d started his own successful construction company that specialized in building self-sustaining homes. Utilizing things like solar, wind, and geothermal power, his buildings were light years beyond what most home builders were doing. While he’d started out with running his business out of his house and driving a piece of crap truck, by the time he moved he was a millionaire.

The scent of fresh cut wood filled my memory as I thought about all the times he’d taken me to his construction sites with him. When I was fifteen, I talked him into letting me spend a summer working part-time for him. It had taken some begging, but he’d finally relented. I still had the hot pink hard hat he’d given me. I’d worn it proudly as Deacon taught me his craft. Looking back, he’d been so patient with me. I mean, I was a typical fifteen-year-old girl, and I’m sure I was more annoying than most. I liked to talk, but thankfully Deacon was one of those guys who liked to listen, so we fit well together.

Not that he never said anything. More than once I’d acted as his sounding board as he’d designed different homes. He seemed to value my feedback and made me seem like my opinion mattered. It was a heady feeling and my stomach still got tight as I’d recalled how he’d praise me when I had